Losing Your Memory
by Calla Mae
Summary: What Frank thought was a simple objective is complicated when a young woman is caught in his line of fire. He's left with the choice to protect her or leave her to die, a choice he didn't know would weigh so heavy on his tired shoulders. Frank Castle/OC
1. Chapter 1

The objective was simple: kill everyone in the warehouse. He'd already located a good vantage point, a balcony overlooking the main room, all he had to do was get into position and wait. These men were criminals, murderers, they deserved what was coming – they'd earned it.

No matter how he'd planned it, how many times he'd cased the area looking for the best way in and out, he didn't know to plan for her. A frail woman clinging to the shadows, her ragged breathing loud enough to give her away, making for the door he'd just entered from. Guards would've filled in by then, she was gonna walk right into them. All he could think staring at the back of her tangled head as she unknowingly inched backward toward him was, not now.

She kept an eye on the small group of men only a few feet in front of her, her view partially skewed by the wooden beams of a staircase. She waited for one of them to look her way, to call out to grab her and put her back in the cage. With each trembling breath she stepped further and further back, glancing briefly over her shoulder to see a long wall and to her left a doorway. She could feel the cool night air drifting in, that was the exit. She was so close.

The breath stilled in her lungs at a large hand wrapping around her mouth, her back pressed against a broad chest driving fear into her quivering heart. There hadn't been enough time for her to cry out.

"Easy now," a low rumbling voice breathed in her ear, ruffling her hair. "I'm not gonna hurt you." He could feel her small body shaking against him, her thin fingers clutching at the hand held firm across her jaw keeping her mouth shut. Looking down at her he turned her face toward his, seeing only the thin point of her nose and her damp terrified eyes. He knew, moment he let her go she'd bolt. Grinding his teeth he stepped further right, closer to the banister, pulling her with him. Pressing his mouth into her ear he said, "it ain't personal." While one of the men gave a loud whoop of a laugh Frank slammed the side of her head against the side of the wood.

…

"Hey brother, glad you make it," a gruff man called at the sight of an old friend. The two shook hands, grins on their equally guarded faces, before one pulled the other in for a one armed hug.

Frank stood silent and composed atop the balcony watching the scene unfold beneath him as more members of this gang showed up, a heavy rifle poised in his hands, his gaze set to the end of the barrel. At his feet lay a thin unconscious woman gently laid, the hair brushed away from her young face.

The sound of the heavy metal doors sliding closed, the soft clinking of a chain dragging along the ground, gave indication that all parties had arrived. And after the initial greetings had been given, as the group of men who'd come together to plan how to go about taking over the city began speaking, their judge and executioner opened fire. So taken by surprise were they that they barely had time to arm themselves before a bullet tore through them. In a matter of ten seconds the men had either fallen to the ground or were on their way, and Frank then turned aim on the door where the men set up like guards had been standing watch – not knowing that the real threat had been inside.

Shooting the last of them down Frank scanned the area around him, shooting the few that moved, before he stooped to grab the girl slinging her and the rifle over his shoulder. Making for the stairs he favored a side piece, shooting a man that came in the back door from the back alley. Another man he met on the wooden stairs, and holding an arm around the girl's legs he raised a foot catching the other man square in the chest sending him back down the wooden steps. As the man lay crumpled on the ground Frank lined up the gun with the kid's head and pulled the trigger.

A hidden fist swung from behind the wall catching Frank's jaw throwing him to the side, his grip slipping on the girl and she fell with a dull thud to the floor. Catching himself on the banister Frank swung wildly at the gangster, hitting him once in the chest and once in the stomach before throwing him head first into the wall hearing his skull crack from the force of it. Then he shot him in the head, and without wasting a breath Frank shot another man running in from outside – man, kid didn't even look thirty.

Spitting the blood from his mouth Frank shook his now aching head and reached for the girl again, throwing her back over his shoulder before he walked into the dark alley behind the warehouse. His face was stern, his brows drawn together his dark eyes narrowed, blood dripping from his chin as he crossed the half lit street into the adjacent alley. She hung limp down his back, her arms extended swaying along with her hair to the cadence of his walk, offering no objection to his taking her.

* * *

 _I absolutely loved the way the show portrayed the Punisher, who I've always favored over more traditional 'heroes' or even antiheroes. This is my attempt at showing just a little bit more of that guarded humanity in him. And this won't necessarily have a romantic element, a subtle possibility perhaps, but it will more so be about two broken people leaning on each other. I can only hope to do Frank Castle, and the amazing show, justice._


	2. Chapter 2

She woke lying on her side, a thin caseless pillow beneath her throbbing head and a frayed sheet draped over her shivering body. There was a weight over her shoulders wrapped tight around her, and after blinking for several moments her blurred vision cleared and she saw a dark jacket. All at once she knew she wasn't in that forgotten warehouse with no one close enough to hear her scream, or at least no one close enough that cared. The jacket was a kind gesture, a gentle one – she'd spent the last few days tied up and gagged, this man was a different breed.

Timidly rolling on her back she stared at the swirling white water-stained ceiling trying to recall his face. Her memory failed her. All she had were a pair of dark angry eyes and a voice so deep and gruff she could still feel his warm breath in her ear. Other than that her mind was blank, not how he'd gotten her out of the warehouse, not how she got in the bare empty room – she could guess well enough from the pounding ache that ebbed in and out near her temple that he'd knocked her out. Even more she could probably guess he'd killed his way out, considering the building had been surrounded. What she didn't know was whether to thank him or run from him.

"Mornin sunshine."

She startled at the sudden sound of a deep heavy voice emerging from beneath the normal cadence of Hell's Kitchen. Muffled behind thin walls were the sounds of car horns, loud angry voices, dogs barking, a baby crying down the hall – but his voice, one part whisper two parts growl, it was close. It had her pulling her aching body up, the jacket falling from around her shoulders to lay crumpled in her lap, to find the meanest looking man she thought she'd ever seen. His dark gaze emotionless, his strong jaw clenched, his frowning mouth pulled in a grimace. Run, she wanted to run from him.

"You hungry?" he asked knowing she was terrified. Proof of that was shining in her impossibly wide eyes followed by the rapid rise and fall of her small chest. The rest of her though, the knitted brow the tension visible in her arms as she held herself up; she was a coil waiting to spring, willing to haul anything she could lift at him if it helped her get out. Self preservation, he could understand that. "Come on," he said giving a faint jerk of his head toward the room behind where he stood in the doorway.

Without another word he turned and left her, competent enough to recognize the caged look in her eyes and understand she didn't trust his intention – she didn't trust his hands. So he grabbed a chair pulling it around the desk to face the room as he waited for her to come out, picked up up his rifle and resumed cleaning the barrel. A solid five minutes passed before the soft sound of bare feet on the floor reached him, and without raising his chin he looked up to see her leaning most of her weight against the wall as she stared confused at the many weapons lining every surface in the apartment. Then that startled gaze sought him out, looking first to the gun in his hands and then warily to his face seeking an answer to what he was planning. Bringing her here was a mistake. "I already told you, I'm not gonna hurt you."

She blinked.

Returning the weapon to its case he stood catching out of the corner of his eye the way she shrunk further back. He kept his distance, gave her space, allowed her to think it was possible she could run before he'd catch her because he knew if it came down to it he'd have her on the ground with a hand over her mouth before she even knew she'd been caught. He stared at where she stood across the room shivering in a dirty tank top and ripped underwear not blaming her for the lack of trust. It didn't make him any happier of a host, or any less inclined to wanna tell her to get lost. But instead he gave a short unamused laugh and said, "I don't bite."

"And I'm just supposed to take your word?"

His brows rose at the use of her voice and he gave a twitch of a shrug. "Got you to talk," he said with the corner of his mouth curled for a brief moment before his face smoothed back to stone. A heavy sigh had his shoulders slumping as he placed the chair he'd once been sitting in front of him. "Have a seat," he ordered, "I'll make you something."

Leaning against the doorframe she watched him turn his back as he headed for the pantry. She quickly looked to the door, only a few feet to her right, lunging for it she could've had it open and been running down the hall screaming for help in a matter of less than five seconds. But her gaze shifted to the guns and the stacked crates of bullets, she wouldn't make it anywhere before he shot her down. Resigning herself to staying put for the time being she inched closer to the table. "Why am I here?"

Her voice was surprisingly deep, not as light or innocent as her sweet face would've had him believe. Glancing over his shoulder he found her moving along the wall, still keeping her distance, as she cautiously made her way to the chair. He smiled, she was smart – smart enough at least. "You got a lot people lookin for you, Ava." He watched her still, those fearful doe eyes meeting his once more with a clear question in her stare. Grabbing the newspaper off the counter he tossed it on the table, not stepping any closer to her, and turned back to the pantry realizing he didn't have anything more than beans to feed her.

With his back to her he didn't see her limping, didn't see the way her face scrunched in a wince as she retrieved the paper. A small grainy photograph of herself stared back. The main article was of some big shot having lost his company, she was nothing more than a paragraph framing the 'more interesting' story, and not even a long paragraph. Just another twenty-something to go missing, the author clearly thinking her absence was willing.

He looked back at her long enough to see a bitter smile form at seeing it was known she was missing, that someone cared enough to notice. Still holding the newspaper she sat in the chair he'd offered, but the moment she settled her weight a searing pain tore through her and she was on her feet with a moan choking in the back of her throat.

She'd jumped as if a fire had been lit under her, but seeing the way she stood with a hand clenching the side of the table half bent at the waist – he knew. Slowly he stepped toward her, getting close enough to see the shine in her narrowed eyes as she stood gasping. "I'm gonna take you back to bed," he told her softly, waiting for her quick series of nods to say he could touch her. With a hand on her back he gently ordered, "put your arms around my neck."

She was slow to comply, to get her feet moving as her body hurt in response to the movement; but she turned into him, her jolting chest pressed against his calm one, her thin arms coming around his wide shoulders. The steady hand on her back curled around her waist, his other arm wrapped around the back of her thighs lifting her feet off the ground as he carried her to the back.

He was careful to lay her on her side, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders where she grabbed the edge and held it under her quivering chin. He then picked up the jacket he'd been wearing last night and tucked that around her too, offering as much security he had to give. This was the reason he'd brought her here; he didn't know if their having her had been intentional, if she'd been the target or just had back luck. But the wrong done to her needed to be made right, and he was gonna make it hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

Time passed slow, the sun inching its way higher in the sky searing the asphalt and rooftops beneath it, the day dragging its feet. The air in the small apartment hung like a blanket, thick and hot, smothering the two beneath it. Frank sat a box fan on the floor facing the bed, wiping his wet brow before plugging it in the wall where it whirred to life.

She hadn't moved, she lay still and warm beneath his heavy coat feeling the fast moving barely cool air slide across her damp face ruffling strands of her dark hair. Her eyes followed his figure as he silently walked back out of the room, his shadow visible through the paper stapled to the frame of what was supposed to be a wall. She tensed, her shoulders drawing in, at a loud scrape of metal on wood and then his heavy boots thumping on the floor as he circled back.

Catching her eye he set the chair inches from the bed, close enough to feel the air but far enough she kept still. And then he left her again, feeling her gaze crawling over his back as he retreated to grab a case. He set it at her feet seeing her jump at the harsh click of the latch as he opened it, and at the sight of the rifle she damn near disappeared from how far she curled in on herself. Without a word he took a seat with the weapon held across his lap, looked up often and held her stare til she looked away, that or he found her asleep. He'd fall still at the sight of her closed eyes, as if any movement might wake her, and he'd just stare. If he had to guess, and all he could do was guess, he'd say she was twenty-five at most and middle to low class given how thin she was. Even then, with how few years she'd seen, he could see the lines around her eyes from how often she smiled. It left him wondering if she'd be able to smile again, but before he could make any promises to himself about seeing her smile he'd turn back to his weapon with a deep frown.

She dozed in and out the rest of the afternoon, her mind jolting at a sudden noise from him before the stifling air had her eyes growing heavy. Once, with the sun dipping low in the sky casting everything in a deep golden hue, she'd opened her eyes to find him sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands folded together over his lap as he leaned back in the chair. From the way his head stayed firmly upright she knew he wasn't actually asleep, only resting his eyes. His brows were still drawn together, his mouth still stern - she wondered if he always looked so mean.

With a much clearer head she turned to the splintered bedside table to see a glass of water he'd set for her, and she gladly rolled onto her stomach and began guzzling. Wiping the trail of water that'd dripped down her chin she noticed the two small white tablets sitting beside a water ring where the cup had been sitting. "What are these?" she asked holding them in her palm.

Without opening his eyes he mumbled, "oxy."

She nodded as though it made sense, as though any of it sense. And she stared at the pills wondering why he was trying to knock her out, she'd given up his hurting her because so far he'd had every chance to, what she ended up with was he wanted to leave and she could either take it or be tied up. Reaching that conclusion she raised her hand to her mouth dropping the tablets on her tongue, took a gulp of the lukewarm water, and threw her head back swallowing.

"Good girl," he said before climbing to his feet. Out of habit he stepped to her side and took the glass setting it back on the table before pulling the covers over her shoulders. It wasn't until he looked down at her sweet face that he remembered this wasn't his girl, she wasn't his kid. But this woman, this Ava Reilly, she wasn't lookin at him scared out of her mind anymore - she was just quiet. Confused.

She watched him turn away, raising a hand to rub his jaw as he threw the gun in the case and snapped it shut. "Why'd you save me?" she asked on a reckless whim, stilling his large heavy feet.

Slowly turning from where he stopped by the door he found her propped up on an elbow, her dark hair gathered on her shoulder tickling her chin. All he could think was that she had to know, she seemed like a smart kid there was no way she couldn't know what would've happened had he not. "They weren't gonna stop," he told her, his eyes hard and unforgiving – as if she'd done anything wrong. "No one, was gonna find you. They'd of kept usin you til they got tired or you weren't as pretty cause some guy bruised that nice face of yours cause you wouldn't stop crying," he seethed nearly spitting. "So they'd sell you to someone who didn't mind a few bruises cause he had worse planned. Some sick fucker who'd carve you up. And even if someone could recognize you they wouldn't want you anymore. Then, then you'd get to die." He gave a short, bitter, hateful laugh as he looked from the window to the bed. "And they'd probably try sellin your," his sudden burst of words died in his throat at the tears in her eyes. He was left in the silence his harsh voice had created staring at her horrified face, mouth gaping eyes widened and glistening. His face twisted in a wince as he looked away.

"The black market," she said softly sniffing, "that's what you were gonna say." She watched him press his lips together giving a quick nod, eyes still on the wall. Nothing he'd said was untrue, was anything she hadn't already known for herself, but to hear it so unapologetically spoken aloud – and it was clear on his irritably upset face that he regretted saying it. "I read this thing on facebook," she said as she took the weight off her elbow and laid on her back. "bout how you're not really worthless cause your organs would go for a lot on the black market." She stared at the dim ceiling growing darker with each passing minute as the sun slowly sank further below the horizon. In a hushed whisper she said, "I thought it was funny at the time," before rolling onto her side facing the fan.

Frank looked at where her small body lay half curled giving a breath of a laugh, finding he was right about her being strong – at least of will. He moved to the bed sitting where her waist bent with his back to her staring at his hands. He was quiet a good few moments, weighing his words and this time choosing more carefully. "I don't know what you had to do to get out, but when I saw you last night so close to getting yourself free." He stared at his hands watching the light make its way down his skin til only a shadow was left in its place. Looking up at the wall like it might have the answers for him he shook his head sighing before turning to look at where she lay staring at him quietly. "I figured you'd had enough," he told her honestly, not seeing any change in her thoughtful face as she let her eyes roam over every inch of his features.

She decided then he'd been telling the truth about not hurting her, intentionally at least because she'd been watching him most of the day and came to realize any softness he had in him was what she was seeing. It didn't mean she wanted him sitting as close as he was but she didn't feel his nearness crawl under her skin like it had before. "What's your name?" she asked quietly as she glanced over his shadowed face.

"Frank," he answered without hesitation, thinking she at least deserved that much.

The curling of her mouth wasn't so much a smile as it was a twitch of her cheek, but it was as much as she was comfortable giving so he silently took it. "Thank you."

His shoulders dropped with his next exhale as he nodded, resting a large hand on her small shoulder in a gesture of friendliness – a gesture that fell short coupled with his disagreeable demeanor. "G'night Ava," he told her, his voice a gruff breath. He waited for her eyes to close, looking for anyway to escape from him, and with it the last of the light was smothered under the horizon.

She fell asleep slowly listening to the dull thumps of his boots on the floor as he gathered his things, the hum of the streetlight outside the bedroom window vibrating inside her head, jolting her back into consciousness with each sudden burst of a car horn or someone yelling on the streets below. Until all at once she was asleep, and he returned to the back room to find she had a faint rumbling snore. It made him smile, almost.


	4. Chapter 4

It was close to dawn when he finally came back, not quite knowing how he felt at having someone to come back to. All he knew was she wasn't who he wanted, and from the way she'd held her breath when his hand was on her arm he knew he wasn't who she wanted either. Only thing they had in common, they were stuck with each other.

He stood over where she lay looking down at her peaceful face watching the strands of hair that blew across her neck from the fan. She looked calm, content, safe like the world hadn't turned its back on her. Taking a brief moment to tuck the hair behind her ear he grabbed the other pillow and threw it and the sleeping bag on the floor turning his back on her as he laid down.

Next thing he knew he was seeing red. Opening his eyes he found the sun glaring through the window shining on his unprotected face, and from its position in the sky he knew it was closer to noon. Long enough she was surely to have woken.

She sat at the edge of the bed with her long thin legs crossed, her elbows resting on her knees with her hands propping up her chin. Staring at him. Seeing her sitting up had him realizing two things: one, someone raped her probably minutes before he'd stumbled across her possibly tying into how she'd escaped, and two she wasn't planning on running. Before he could think more on the second, his musing was interrupted by her thick voice.

"D'you know there's blood on your face?" Her tone was bland, matter of fact. She'd woken well before he had, and in fear of waking him she'd opted to study him – he was broad shouldered, strong armed, stern jawed. Taking his features in pieces he wasn't a handsome man: his head was long, his eyes close together, his ears stuck out, his nose crooked and pressed wide from the number of times it'd been broken, his mouth full and strangely feminine. Taking him in as a whole – she still didn't find him handsome. But his was a face a person remembered, so long as he let them live to remember it. Given the amount of blood speckled on his face and soaked on his neck, she didn't think he let many people live.

He knew he'd forgotten something. And yet she didn't move, didn't give any indication she minded and she was an easy read. "Take it your feelin better," he stated, though he left it open for her to give an answer. There were a lot of people he wanted to hurt, that he'd hurt last night – she wasn't one of them.

She raised a narrow shoulder as she met his stare, those dark eyes looking like the pit of hell. "If better means it doesn't hurt as much then yeah, I'm feeling better. You gonna tell me what happens now?"

Giving a breath of a laugh he shrugged out of the sleeping bag, taking the time to roll it back up and set it neatly on the pillow, before moving to the small brown door across from the bed. "Come on," he said throwing it open and jerking his head to indicate he wanted her inside.

She wasn't happy with it, with any of it, but she slowly pushed herself off the bed and obediently padded her way to what she realized was a bathroom rather than a closet. It was small with a sink right at the door, a toilet directly to the left and then right beside that was the shower. And it was all a sick pukey green. Dingy, that was the word she'd use. Somehow it was fitting.

Shutting the door he placed a hand on the small of her back pushing her into the sink as he moved around her to the shower. When he'd turned the faucet to warm and set the curtain back he looked to see her standing morosely behind him with her arms crossed tight around her middle as if it might keep him at bay. "No offense kid, but skin and bone ain't exactly my type," he said before pulling his shirt off. Holding it in his hands he felt how stiff it was, had seen the large spray of dried blood covering the side of his neck – he was damn surprised she hadn't cut loose. He raised his chin to look at her, his brows drawn together his eyes squinting as if from a glare.

"Was that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked, her voice low and dry. She rolled her eyes at his shrug, let her gaze roam over his back as he turned to the shower and pulled off his pants. She'd placed herself at the door prepared to throw it open the second he moved, and she jumped at the sharp scrape of the hooks sliding along the rod as he pulled back the shower curtain.

All of this he'd known, purposefully keeping his distance not letting his gaze roam anywhere beyond her panicking stare. He didn't think she realized how worked up she'd gotten, not til he looked at her over his shoulder where she stood with her forehead against the wall. "Why don't you have a seat," he offered, though with his gruff voice it sounded more an order.

She watched him step into the shower pulling the curtain closed after him, for her benefit because he probably wanted it open to see the door on the chance she'd run. It was something she appreciated, she was more comfortable with the curtain closed than if she could see any part of the tub. Comfortable enough she walked to the toilet and quietly shut the lid before gingerly lowering herself onto to it, her face twisting in a wince as she propped an arm on the counter to hold some of her weight. "I'd have left when you were sleeping," she said before she let herself think too long, knowing she'd talk herself out of talking. She could hear the water drumming on the acrylic, the streams dripping off his edges. So when his body moved out of the spray she heard the change in sound, and she looked up to see him pull back the curtain to see her.

As uncomfortable as she looked she was sitting, it meant she was healing. But that was only a passing thought, because his mind returned once more to why she was still there. "You know they're after you," he said coming quickly to that conclusion. There was no other reason for her to have not at least looked at the door like she was thinking of running, unless she knew they were waiting for her to turn up. The paper he'd shown her last night let her know not only that people knew she was missing, but that they'd know when she was found. She was staying put; she really was a smart kid.

"I have a guess," came her quiet answer. He gave a nod before pulling the curtain and finished washing himself, the reddened water at his feet having already run clear. She had a guess as to why she'd been taken, from her home no less – that didn't mean she wanted to be right.

Standing in the warm, soothing, spray he thought of the two things he'd learned last night: she'd definitely been a target, and a man named Louis Foster had given her up. The lackey Frank tied up and questioned hadn't known why or how Louis knew her, all the kid knew was that Louis owed a lot of money and he'd given her name pretty quick. The kid might've walked out alive if he'd kept his mouth shut, if he hadn't said through the blood and tears dripping down his face he'd never wanted to hurt her. Frank stabbed him in the throat, twisted the knife letting him really feel it before he hit the artery and he bled out. Finding someone who knew anything, and was willing to talk, had taken most of the night, and a trail of bodies like breadcrumbs led to where the kid was tied like a slaughtered pig.  
He watched the soap run down his body and gather around the drain too slow to empty before it overflowed. Whoever Louis Foster was, he wasn't seeing tomorrow. Frank thought this as he slid the curtain open and stepped onto the cold linoleum floor grabbing a towel as water began puddling at his feet.

She stared at the water around him, watched it drip down his legs. He was too close, too naked, and she had nowhere to go. It made him pause, the towel draped around his shoulders, her staring at his feet with wide unblinking eyes. In the back of her mind she still thought he'd hurt her. That realization burned in him, and he quickly wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped toward the wall away from her. "Your turn."

"Not with you in here," she told him unapologetically, and without hesitation.

Giving a short surprised laugh he nodded. "Yes ma'am," he agreed walking to the door.

Her eyes followed him, dancing over his water speckled back as he turned the corner and disappeared. Craning her neck she tried to look further around the doorframe, and when she didn't see him she stood – her body bent forward creeping along the cold floor til she finally found him at the foot of the bed throwing the folded clothes he'd grabbed on the way. It was alright, she was alright. So was he.

Turning to the mirror, with him still in view behind her, she saw her face for the first time in days. It was jarring how much the same she looked, and yet so different. The bags under her eyes and clammy pale skin reminded her too much of her deadbeat father, there was a dark bruise framing her temple, her hair was stringy and oily. Slowly peeling the tattered tank top from her skin, unsticking the underwear from her legs, she stared at the same narrow shoulders and the same bumpy plains of ribs that just barely showed through. On top of them, she was littered in fingerprints starting from her waist trailing down to where they mainly conjugated along her legs.

Her body was a map of torment, of degradation and cruelty. She looked up, her gaze shifting to his reflection where he stood grimacing at the sight of her. His right index finger tapping a chaotic beat against his thumb. His own eyes raised, as though he felt her looking at him, and he held her wide-eyed stare with his own dark one. And then she swung the door shut where it closed with a loud echoing snap.


End file.
